


The Games We Must Play

by Percygranger



Series: Gameplay [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Bodily Fluids, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic and extended description of nipple clamps, Foot Fetish, Light Bondage, Lots and lots of BDSM, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Painplay, Porn, Prompt Fic, Rimming, Roughness, Spanking, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock won't play the game without...well, a game. Good thing John can keep up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Our Intrepid Heroes Have Breakfast, and Remember How It All Started

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mugenmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/gifts).



> Beta-ed by fitz_y, numberthescars, and ureshiiichigo. Brit-picked by korearabin. A huge thanks to them for all of their work. This would be four hundred words of mistake-riddled telling without you. Any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.
> 
> Written for and dedicated to the lovely Mugenmine, who prompted this, and waited extremely patiently while I wrote, procrastinated, wrote, beta-ed, procrastinated, and finally finished this amazingly long piece of porn.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, rolling from his side to his back. John huffed silently in amusement, watching fondly from his half of the bed. Sherlock was bored already. Only three days since finishing up the last case, and his favourite detective couldn’t stay still even in sleep.

 

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, John’s mind flashed to where he’d put his newest additions to their toys: a regularly expanding collection of cock rings, cuffs, dildos, and other, more esoteric, items. He’d bought something new for playing their game, before the most recent case had interrupted all activity. Sherlock’s dedication to his profession was admirable, but sometimes John wished he were a little bit less single-minded. It had been two weeks since he’d enjoyed more than his own hand. _As soon as he wakes up, we’re playing_. He’d waited long enough.

 

****

 

Sherlock’s consciousness faded in, his brain waves shifting from sleeping patterns (delta, theta, cycles speeding up...) into a more active state. Alertness increased and information flooded in as his senses returned. Sherlock was most fond of beta waves of course, the highest state of arousal when his brain darted between ideas like a dancer with multiple partners, connecting them all with threads of gossamer **-** thin, steel **-** strong logic. His sense of place and memory connected next, reminding him of the previous night’s activities (John nagging him into bed with the argument that two nights of sleep did not begin to make up for a week’s worth of near-total sleep-deprivation).

 

He breathed in, keeping up the rhythm his body was already setting. Nothing smelled out of place. There was a faint scent of fabric softener from John’s jumpers, dust from the windows, detergent and shampoo on the bed sheets. He felt John’s presence, his audible breathing patterns indicating that he was awake, possibly watching Sherlock (John did this with surprising regularity. Sherlock knew he was fascinating, but the most interesting things happened while he was awake, why would John want to watch someone, anyone, sleep? He would have to try watching John). His senses, conscious and unconscious, sent him only the message of “home”. Finally, he tested his body as he did every morning, sending the smallest of signals to his limbs, causing a nearly unnoticeable twitch. Transport operational and unimpaired by outside forces. Excellent.

 

He opened his eyes, taking in the ceiling of John’s room, which was quickly becoming more and more familiar. Sherlock let his eyes wander about the room, taking in all the minute details that made it unique. His eyes found John’s, and his lips curled up, mimicking John’s expression. John was normal but not normal, a contradiction inside a paradox inside a shell of normality, but he was easy to follow if you knew how.

 

He shifted, slipping out ofthe bed, allowing his pyjama bottoms to fall into place, untwisting around his frame. John was still smiling, but Sherlock calmed himself, rearranging his face into a neutral expression. He would never admit it, but John’s suggestion of sleep _had_ made him feel better.

 

“Have a good rest?” John inquired, always ready with the mundane minutia that dominated the world.

 

Sherlock cocked his head briefly. John had been observing Sherlock’s methods for a very long time now; let him draw his own conclusions.

 

John rose, too, stepping towards the taller man, and took his chin by the hand. His grip was firm and warm, comfortingly steady. “Words, Sherlock. Answer me.”

 

Sherlock’s lips quirked. His blood rushed more quickly through his veins, bringing certain areas to life as he took in the shift of power between them, acquiescing with a simple, “It was adequate.”

 

John smiled, the expression making his usually stern face open up, although his posture remained commanding. “Breakfast first, then something new. Be ready to guess.” His hand trailed down Sherlock’s chest before he removed it. He moved out of the bedroom, not stopping to see if Sherlock would follow. He always did.

 

“Of course, John.” Turning to follow John to the kitchen, Sherlock savoured the lingering warmth on his skin where John had caressed him. Breakfast would be boring - well, the eating part would be - but ‘something new’ sounded like a good possibility of distraction.

 

Breakfast was the same as usual: eggs, toast, sausages, coffee. However, having John cut the food into small bites and order Sherlock to eat turned what might have otherwise been a gruelling ordeal into a much simpler exercise: pleasing John. It didn’t matter-the endless repetition of bite/chew/swallow - if Sherlock had a goal in mind. He did difficult things in service of a larger goal frequently, and pleasing John was a very worthy goal. Having boundaries and orders to fulfil soothed the uncertainty, the almost-anxiety of not knowing what was right, or whether something was “not good”. Something in Sherlock relaxed as he submitted, an action nearly guaranteed to please his friend, flatmate, and lover.

 

Sherlock downed his coffee, the last bit of breakfast, tongue reaching for the sugary slush at the bottom. He looked up. John liked it when Sherlock finished a meal, but John’s eyes were fixed on the paper. He glanced up after a moment, obviously checking on Sherlock’s performance. His mouth quirked a bit at Sherlock’s expectant face and he nodded towards the kitchen. Sherlock heaved a sigh dramatically, but stacked his dishes and took them to the sink. Returning to the table, Sherlock luxuriated in John’s nod of approval and engaged in their newest game: waiting ‘patiently’. John’s definition of patient was “still, quiet, and not looking at me every five seconds. Wait, no, every thirty.” Sherlock kept himself entertained by mentally going through his current experiments, placing hypotheses and the previous day’s data side by side and predicting further outcomes. That took up the first two minutes.

 

His hands started itching for his violin, he needed something to pluck and bow, to act on. He clenched his fists and breathed slowly, creating a violin in his imagination. He’d pluck the A string rhythmically with his thumb as his thoughts spooled. His finger twitched in time, acting on imaginary wood and tightly wound metal strings.

Next, Sherlock tried to deduce the new thing that John was going to try out on him today. Something small, Sherlock would have noticed a large package among the shopping. And he had seen the post, nothing there, so something John wanted to touch and examine in person first, braving the still-present embarrassment of going to a sex-toy shop.

John might be “all fine” when it came to orientation, but this was his first relationship that consistently pushed past vanilla. They were learning together, but emotions were always annoyingly slow to adjust. Sherlock had no such problems, of course. Being labelled a freak for the majority of his life - and accepting his otherness - made him much more adaptable to whatever he decided to do.

 

The last time John had gone outside his usual route was...one week and four days ago. Instead of tube, job, tube, shopping, home, he’d taken a detour that had required more time on the underground. Sherlock shuddered slightly, letting it dissipate into a bit of vibrato.

 

They’d been going through a crop and cane phase at that point, so it must be something that would not work with those instruments, or would make it more dangerous; something John would deem them unready for at that time. Sherlock’s fingers on his left hand curved, holding down strings made of air. His thumb plucked wider, hitting two and three silent strings in sequence, creating a discordant twanging chord that resolved into a slow major triple-stop as Sherlock’s brain tallied all the possibilities and landed on the most likely ones: clamps or a humbler. They had explored most of the other smaller toys. Clamps were extremely variable in make and quality, making them something that John would have to examine himself. The same was true of humblers. John tried out each piece of equipment before using it on Sherlock. Clamps were more likely, then, especially with the gesture John had made in the bedroom. Although Sherlock found the idea of a humbler almost intoxicating, he shook his head at himself. Really, emotion over deduction was just not done. Clamps, then.

 

When they had first begun playing, John had insisted they do the tedious listing and rating of types of play that seemed to prevail in BDSM communities, requiring an equal exchange of information. Sherlock had rebelled, of course.

 

****

 

_“So what’s the game, then?”_

_“Game?”_

_“Game, yes. I’m not going to do this without one. Lists are boring, confessions are boring. This entire exercise is boring!”_

_John cocked his head, apparently perplexed that Sherlock would object to such basic (boring), necessary (boring) tasks (even the word itself implied boredom, how could he not see this?). He spoke carefully, “You want a reward for doing this?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, shifting restlessly, finally getting up from his sprawl on the couch to crouch in a chair across from John. “No. I want you to make it interesting.” Sherlock looked intently at John, willing him to grasp the concept._

_John’s eyes opened wider briefly, his chest rising with a new inhalation, Sherlock suddenly wanted those parted lips and teeth on his neck but John had forbidden any new play until this task (boring!) was done. “You want to make it a bet.” John’s grin was mischievous, then predatory. He leaned forward. “I’m very good at betting.”_

_Sherlock ignored the tightening of his stomach at John’s tone; uncurling one arm to wave a hand in the air. “Yes, yes, and I’m a genius. Are you going to do it?”_

_“Sure.”_

_“Well?”_

_John looked annoyed. “I’m thinking. Give me a second, will you? You have no patience.”_

_Sherlock huffed, but fell silent, counting the seconds, then sprang forward to rummage about, planning his next experiment on the connection between decomposition rates and environmental factors, occasionally interrupted by his newest composition. Major keys would be the death of him._

_“Ah.” John’s sigh was nearly silent._

_Sherlock looked up immediately and started moving back to the table. “You have it, then? Go on, impress me.”_

_John grinned, his eyes thoughtful. “You don’t like confessions? Fine. You get to guess.”_

_“Deduce.” The realization that John was teasing him didn’t dispel the irritation at the misnomer._

_“Same difference.”_

_“I deduce your preferences, and then…” Sherlock let his voice trail off invitingly._

_“For every one you get wrong, you tell me two of yours, and I get to punish you any way I see fit.”_

_Sherlock scoffed, crouching in the chair. “Any way? That’s hardly sporting.”_

_“Ha! You, talking about fair. Who’s the one who barely deigns to explain the mysteries of criminal behaviour to us common folk?” John pushed his body forward, trying to intimidate even while sitting. Sherlock smirked._

_“That’s different. I’m inherently more intelligent. Asking me to explain something perfectly obvious is a privilege, not a right. Besides, we’re not talking about knowledge. We’re talking about pain.”_

_“Which you like.” John looked as if he were proving a point._

_“Certainly, under certain circumstances, but a good experiment needs proper parameters. What are your expected outcomes?” Sherlock shifted to a more typical sitting position, then abruptly turned boneless, and slid halfway down it. He disliked wooden chairs, one couldn’t get comfortable._

_John sighed in exasperation. “Fine, three ways. I get to decide which ways I punish you, though.”_

_“…Acceptable. Which?”_

_“Spanking.” John’s tone was casual, as if he were commenting on the weather._

_Sherlock sneered, but he could feel his breath coming slightly quicker. “It will have to do, and the other two?”_

_“To be decided after the game.”_

_“Logical.” Sherlock acknowledged._

_John smiled smugly, leaning back in his chair. “So, you guess-“_

_“Deduce!”_

_“_ Guess _what I like. You choose wrong, you get spanked. You choose right, then you share one of your preferences with me, and then you have two options.”_

_“Free pass on a punishment, obviously.”_

_“Yes, and-“_

_“Wouldn’t be a present choice. You’d never allow me to punish you, so, future tense: free pass there?”_

_“Sherlock?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Shut up and let me explain.”_

_Sherlock scoffed, but waited, eyes fixed on John._

_John’s eyes scrunched up, and he released a short breath, body relaxing slightly. “If you guess right, then you choose between a free pass on those three things, and only those three things, or a reward at the end of the scene.”_

_Sherlock felt his own forehead creasing in thought. His body stilled, mind engaged as he processed the implications of the bargain. “It’s entirely unfair. Heavily weighted towards your own self-interest.”_

_“Well, yes. That’s the point.” John had the audacity to look pleased with himself._

_Sherlock looked at John for a short moment, distilling the odds and possible outcomes. Then his eyes lit up, his mouth parting in a grin. He straightened. “It will make things interesting. Aren’t you glad I prompted you?”_

_“Forced me, more like.”_

_“Whatever. Let’s play.”_

_John sat up straighter, eyes fixed on Sherlock. “Ready when you are.”_

****


	2. In Which the Game Begins

John finished his last bite of breakfast, and set his paper down. He hadn’t seen anything that would catch Sherlock’s interest; all the better for their day inside. Sherlock kept his eyes on the table. His left hand was palm out, as though he were playing a small guitar; fingers spread in constantly changing patterns. His right was near his belly, thumb pulling down rhythmically. John huffed a half-sigh, half-laugh. “Playing air violin again?”

 

Sherlock gifted him with a dirty look, his eyes intense and mouth pursed. John felt a curl of heat in his belly, but ignored it in favour of the most basic of training methods.

 

“You’re getting better at the patience thing.”

 

Sherlock smiled briefly, shyly, his eyes moving away from John’s, before his expression morphed into slyness. He moved in an undulating cat-like stretch designed to show off his body and emphasize his chest.

 

“Right, right. You think you know what we’re doing and you want it now. Impatient bastard,” John spoke in a normal tone, far too used to Sherlock’s behaviour to be annoyed by it. “We’re getting to it, if you’ll just behave for one more minute...” He took his own dishes to the sink, pausing only to run an approving hand over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pushed into it, and watched as John rinsed everything off and stacked his dishes neatly inside the dishwasher. That was the next step in Sherlock’s training, John decided. Once he’d mastered waiting quietly, they’d move on to slightly more useful tasks, like actually cleaning up his messes.

John dried his hands, ignoring the curling tension in his belly, satiating it with the promise of later. He clicked his fingers to get Sherlock’s attention. “You, upstairs, on the bed, no pants. Go.”

 

Sherlock didn’t move immediately, cocking his head. “But I want to play now.”

 

John kept his lips from moving, into a smile or impatient snarl...he wasn’t sure. “You don’t get the choice. It’s mine now. Do I have to show you?”

 

“Maybe.” Sherlock’s face was remarkably blank.

 

John moved, feinting for Sherlock’s throat, grabbing his wrists as Sherlock brought them up defensively. John twisted Sherlock’s arms around, trapping him inside his own limbs. “You’ll do as I say.” It was always surprising how calm he sounded during these moments. John was good under stress, but his sheer arousal at having to bring Sherlock down wasn’t really what he’d call stress. He licked his lips.

 

Sherlock twisted, doing something fast and impossible that released him from John’s grip. John went for his legs, kicking at the back of Sherlock’s knee while watching avidly for an opening. Sherlock’s right leg buckled, and Sherlock spun with it, turning to face John. John pounced, nearly clipping his chin on Sherlock’s skull. They landed on the carpet.Sherlock’s breathless “oof” as he landed on his back only made John more eager to continue.

 

John scrambled to contain Sherlock’s limbs, hooking his legs over Sherlock’s, placing his left upper arm across the long throat, discouraging any quick movement. Sherlock wheezed for several breaths, thrashing under John, right arm going for John’s ribs, but Sherlock stopped once he realised his position. He stared at John, lips parted, his breath coming more quickly than usual. The look was so reminiscent of the ones he had after their madcap runs through the city that John almost made a joke, wanting to see those eyes crinkle in a laugh, but that wasn’t what this was about.

 

“Better. You ready to submit now?” John panted, thrilling at the rush of blood in his veins even after such a short scuffle.

 

“Fine.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, his body still but tense underneath John’s.

 

John increased the pressure of his forearm against Sherlock’s throat very carefully. Just enough pressure for Sherlock to feel how his breathing was restricted. “What?”

 

Sherlock’s breaths came more quickly. His eyes dilated, and his body relaxed under John’s. “Yes, I submit.” His eyes nearly closed at the last word. From irritation? The beginnings of subspace? John was never quite sure, but the right words and body cues had appeared, so John released the pressure, checking Sherlock’s neck with a quick glance and gentle hand before pushing up on all fours, then standing. He offered Sherlock a hand. Sherlock looked at it for a second before taking it, using their combined strength to pull himself up.

 

John schooled his face to calm, masking his exhilaration. “Bed, no clothes. Two minutes.”

 

Sherlock’s face, fleetingly visible before he turned in the direction of the stairs, crinkled in a closed **-** mouth smile. His stride was smooth and even, and John took a few seconds to appreciate the way his lover’s body moved before following, splitting off to the bathroom before he entered the bedroom.

Sherlock was already lying on the bed, arms crossed beneath his head, emphasizing the slim build of his chest and torso. For a boxer, Sherlock had surprisingly small muscles. John maintained it was his episodes of starvation that kept him too lean. Sherlock insisted that his build ran in the family. Whatever the source, John was eager to play with it.

 

“Comfortable?” John asked, keeping his voice light and teasing.

 

Sherlock smirked and nodded.

 

“Excellent. Turn over, shoulders and knees, wrists behind your back.” John infused his voice with the steel he had discovered in the military. Sherlock, as always, responded beautifully to that tone, turning with alacrity.

 

John inhaled, admiring the view, feeling a fierce rush that stuck in his throat, filling him with possessiveness and adoration, and I-cannot-believe-he-trusts-me insecurity. It never got old, seeing Sherlock move at John’s command. After a timeless moment, he breathed it all out, and moved to secure Sherlock’s wrists with soft, lined cuffs.

 

“You’re going to be good for me today, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock nodded into the mattress. “I’m always good, John.”

 

John laughed slightly at that. “Depends on your definition of the word. Good, today, is doing everything I say. Real obedience, real submission. You can do that, right?”

 

Sherlock’s head turned, the half of his face that John could see was thoughtful. “Perhaps, if we could move on to the clamps, I’d be more amenable.”

 

John brought a stiff hand down with a smack on Sherlock’s exposed arse. Sherlock jumped slightly, his eyes widening, but relaxed almost immediately. John continued, making his hand crack down. He delighted in the feel of his hand meeting soft, bouncy flesh, sometimes staying in contact after a blow, pressing in to feel the rebound against his hand. Other times he paused, hand falling away, to watch pale skin turn white before pinking up. He breathed in, smelling their sweat, his from the effort of spanking, Sherlock’s from the effort of not moving. He rubbed the hot skin, soothing just a little before bringing his hand down again. Sherlock’s arse was a nice bright pink by the time John’s breath was laboured and his hand tired out. Sherlock was shuddering slightly into the duvet with each blow, and as John checked underneath Sherlock’s bent body, his cock was hard and full, nearly touching the bed.

 

Giving it a quick, soft pull, John said teasingly, “That was for guessing out of turn, and you better not be cheating, rubbing into the sheets like a teenager.” Sherlock just moaned slightly, his eyes dilated, pleading.

 

John tapped Sherlock’s side. “Over again, now.” He helped Sherlock turn over, his usual grace impaired by the cuffs and fear of hurting his arms and his arse as he lay back on them. John made sure they didn’t twist under him as he rolled.

 

John examined Sherlock’s face, noting the flush, the slight beading of sweat at his temples, and the larger-than-usual pupils. All was well, then. Bringing a quick, gentle hand down the side of his face, John brought Sherlock’s wandering attention back to where it should be. Soft, possessive affection melded with bubbly playfulness inside John’s head, making him a bit dizzy. “Now it’s time to guess. What did you want to say?”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times, re-orienting on the present. John imagined he knew what it was like: going from hyperawareness of details, the feel of a gun in his hand, the targets, the smell of gunpowder, to a more general consciousness: sore feet, hunger, a dry mouth, and the admiring glances of fellow soldiers. Except, perhaps, that he wouldn’t get to choose what he focused on, or when.

 

“Um, ah, nipple clamps.” Sherlock’s deep voice was a shade rougher, the edges of his public school accent blurred.

 

“Excellent deduction. You want to opt out of anything before we start?”

 

Sherlock’s expression cleared slightly, meeting John’s eyes with his own. “No.”

 

John smiled. “Okay then, you can tell me what you want after we’re done, unless I need to do something to prepare?”

 

Sherlock shook his head slowly, dishevelled curls brushing the bed. Combined with his blown pupils, the movement made him seem drugged. John knew exactly what chemicals were rushing through Sherlock’s system. So did Sherlock, when he wasn’t experiencing them. John found the box he’d hidden the clamps in, and opened it slowly, dragging the action out deliberately: he pulled the chain over the side of the box one link at a time, making Sherlock squirm with impatience.

 

“You want these?” John dangled the mean-looking clamps, connected by a chain, their rounded teeth little metal mountains that locked together, in front of Sherlock’s face, bumping his nose lightly. Sherlock nodded, then seemed to remember he could speak, and gave a hoarse “Oh, yes. Get on with it.”

 

John clicked his tongue at Sherlock’s impudence, but let the end of one clamp drag down Sherlock’s front, making him shiver slightly. As it drew closer to a nipple he opened it wide, and let the open lips rest on either side of the crinkled nub before slowly letting them close, the flesh compressing between them. 

 

John smiled, remembering what it had felt like when he tried it, a bright, un-ignorable pain that just kept going. Sherlock breathed in deeply, or started to, cutting off abruptly as the air moved his chest and shifted his new accessory.

 

“Feel good?”

 

Sherlock’s face was abstracted, his eyes fixed elsewhere. John knew what he was feeling. “Hurts, not like anything else, a pinch that never stops. I want it to stop...”

 

John smiled. “And this is where that brain of yours kicks in. All those wonderful, natural chemicals making you fly.” He wandered a finger across Sherlock’s abdomen as he spoke, emphasizing the last word with a soft tug at the connecting chain. Sherlock made a sound that made John’s cock twitch. He loved this, watching Sherlock get lost inside a world John created for him, moulding to his expectations, experiencing it so fully that he couldn’t see out of it.

 

“Time for the next one.” John leaned down to speak right next to Sherlock’s ear. “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes, yes, please, John,” Sherlock gasped. He wriggled under John’s weight, pressing his chest towards John’s stomach. John took hold of Sherlock’s shoulder, stilling him.

 

“Enough. You’ll get what you need, what you deserve.”

 

Sherlock moaned, and stilled completely, lips parted, his eyes focused on what John was doing.

 

John brushed Sherlock’s right nipple with his free hand, making the stiff nub tilt and bounce back as each finger passed over. Sherlock’s sighs made him smile, and he pushed the flesh down with a firm thumb, making small circles. Sherlock pushed back into it, like a cat trying to control how it’s being petted.

 

“No,” John spoke, removing his hands completely. “You don’t get control here. If you try, I won’t play.” He’d learned this from animal training manuals as a boy. It worked surprisingly well on people.

 

Sherlock stilled again, deflating a little, but pushed back as John touched him once more. John pushed him down and slapped his side lightly before removing his touch. “If you can’t do this, I _will_ tie you down.”

 

Sherlock whined, “I’m trying.”

 

“Not hard enough. Who is the one in charge?” John made his voice inflexible, feeling heat rise within him, stiffening his back.

 

Sherlock looked at John, eyes wider than usual, begging for leniency. John remained where he was, staring back dispassionately. Sherlock huffed, looked away, “You are.”

 

John felt a pool of satisfaction start to grow inside, cooling him down again. “Better. I’m in charge of what?”

 

Sherlock made a small sound in his throat, his body shifting restlessly, his eyes darted back to John’s, caught, and he stilled again. “Me, you’re in charge of me.”

 

John stretched out a hand, gliding in the air just above Sherlock’s body, feeling the heat radiating out. “And why am I in charge of you?”

 

Sherlock sighed, turning his head into the duvet. “Because you won the fight,” he mumbled.

 

John relished the sight, moving down to kiss at that neck as he brought his hand back to Sherlock’s chest, pinching the nipple firmly, then twisting until Sherlock whined. “That’s right, I won. You surrendered because you need me, need this, don’t you?” Sherlock panted, obviously fighting not to move away. “Well?” John twisted just a bit harder, stomach tightening as he watched Sherlock’s expression, his open mouth.

 

“Yes! I need you.”

 

John let go, using his teeth to bite Sherlock’s neck softly while he soothed thereddened skin below, first with gentle touches and then moving there with his lips and tongue, rewarding obedience with pleasure. “Good, that’s good. Almost there,” he said. Sherlock stayed in position. John smiled a bit, lips moving against Sherlock’s chest. He blew on the wet nipple, smoothing a possessive, triumphant hand down Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock shuddered, but didn’t otherwise move.

 

“Good boy,” John praised. They were finally there, where he could do as he liked. He felt lighter, faster, better able to do everything he’d planned, knowing that Sherlock would try his best to do what John wanted. He took the second clamp and opened it, testing the spring as he thumbed the cool, slightly-sticky skin he was about to hurt. Sherlock’s eyes had fallen closed, truly gone now. John carefully reached over and positioned the clamp, filling the jaws with sensitive, darkened flesh before slowly letting it shut. Sherlock groaned; his breaths short and regular. His chest undulated slightly, as though he were testing his range of motion.

 

“Is that what you wanted?” John asked, taking in the sight, his grin soft and indulgent. He traced the line of the chain, not really pulling so much as shifting the angle of the clamps.

 

“Yeah,” Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly, focussing on John. He blinked sleepily, drugged from within.

 

“Good, ‘cause we’re not done with these. You look too damn pretty.” He returned to the centre of the chain and tugged it playfully.

 

Sherlock gasped slightly, eyes flying open to meet John’s. His return smile, which would usually be sardonic at that sort of compliment, was genuine. “Thank you, John.”

 

John laughed, eyes crinkling, then set to work making Sherlock moan some more.

 

****


	3. In Which There is Copious Amounts of Porn

It was easy to work on Sherlock like this: when he was pliable, just there to enjoy himself. He didn’t always make it this easy. John could list quite a few arguments that had ended in serious threats of makeshift gags.

 

To celebrate, John indulged in a long, passionate kiss. Sherlock didn’t always enjoy kissing, but participated this time, slowly, responses half a second later than usual. When they kissed outside of scening - when Sherlock wasn’t in subspace - it was a battle, Sherlock anticipating each move and counter-attacking, often before John could finish his assault. This complacency was almost...boring in comparison. John grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling his head up, closer to John’s, and spoke.

 

“You better keep up. Give me more.” He let go of Sherlock’s head, letting it thump softly into the pillows, and walked a hand down to the cold chain on Sherlock’s chest.

 

The threat of those trailing fingers seemed to wake Sherlock up. He pushed back against John, tongue starting to move more quickly. He pulled back to breathe, starting to say something in response, but John cut him off, garbling his words with lips and tongue. When John pulled off this time, panting, Sherlock’s gaze was trained on John’s face, eyes searching.

 

“Good, better.” John said, and moved down, mouthing, biting, licking at Sherlock’s collarbone, following it to his shoulder, revelling in the smooth skin, the shifting muscles as Sherlock surged minutely into the touch, enjoying it but not trying to control it any more.

 

John brought his hands into play, abandoning the clamps to smooth down Sherlock’s sides. Sherlock squirmed slightly. John resisted the urge to make that wiggling become true laughter. Sherlock hated tickling so much it was a true punishment, unlike spanking.

 

****

 

Surfacing, Sherlock found the world little changed from the last time he’d noticed it. John was still there. The scent of perspiration and sex still heavy in the air, the sheets still pushed against his limbs like a reversal of gravity, and he could feel them trying to wrap around him, hold him down.

 

His nipples were burning, flaring with pain every time he shifted, which was often, reacting to John’s path down his torso. John’s hands brushed lightly against Sherlock’s ribs; his wet, suctioning mouth pulling his skin in almost painfully. Sherlock stiffened as John reached his hips, tongue tracing his hipbone as it protruded from inside his skin. John’s hands held Sherlock still as his head moved slowly over to the centre of Sherlock’s being, hovering. Not touching, licking, mouthing, or doing anything but breathing. Sherlock whined at the sensation of warm air blowing on his tight, sensitive skin. He could feel himself hardening further, and nearly bucked up, to try to touch his cock to John’s mouth, but doing so wouldn’t end well. He wanted to be good today. Not usually, but today - today was different.

 

John blew out deliberately, feathering his breath across hot, blood-filled flesh. Sherlock twisted in his grasp, unable to stop his hips from moving this time, but John held him down, firm. Sherlock sighed, able to relax fully for the first time. He felt suddenly aware of his breathing, his rib cage rising and falling with each panting breath. The clamps hurt, and his cock ached. The sweat between his hips and John’s hands was warm and slippery. The smell of sex hung in the air. His own hands were lying under him, useless, losing sensation slowly as his blood flow was restricted.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, licking his lips, feeling the smooth glide of tongue over dry, sensitive flesh, and wished John would do the same further down. John tugged at the clamps suddenly, but not very hard, and Sherlock broke from his reverie with a soft sound, returning his wandering gaze to John’s.

 

John smiled evilly, and stroked a very deliberate hand over Sherlock’s cock, pushing it forward to expose heavy balls. He mouthed at them, very gently, as Sherlock panted with pleasure. Each touch set off thousands of nerves tingling so hard that Sherlock felt he might explode, except that it was too short, too soon. He needed more.

 

“Please, John-” Sherlock’s voice was reedy. He sounded weak, needy, submissive. That’s what he was. He knew it and acted like it. He hated it at times, but he couldn’t hate it now, not when John was killing him with pleasure, tantalising him with pain. Balancing him on the knife-edge of insanity. Filling his body so that his mind didn’t work anymore. The thought nearly pushed him over the edge, but John saw, how, Sherlock wasn’t sure, and soft lips turned into cruel hands, squeezing him hard enough to stop him from falling over the edge.

 

“No! Please. John.”

 

“Not today, Sherlock. You have to earn it if you really want it.” John’s tone was stern, as was his face, but his eyes held something else, something triumphant.

 

“What?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What do I have to do to come?”

 

“I’ll let you know when I decide.”

 

****

 

Sherlock’s cock was hard, flushed red, veins standing out, balls tighter than they’d been before. John gave it another playful tug. Sherlock reacted with a bitten off sound. “We’re not done yet, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock opened bleary eyes, trying unsuccessfully to focus on John. He didn’t, (couldn’t?) speak. Warm affection flooded John’s chest, feelings that tightened his own nipples and cock. He trailed a hand up Sherlock’s belly. The muscles fluttered underneath the pale skin. He did it again, just to watch it happen twice. Sherlock squirmed a bit as John played with his body. John gave him a light slap, reminding him, settling him back down.

 

John didn’t stay there long, slipping his right hand up, up, past still-visible ribs to the slight pectorals decorated by the silver clamps and chain that connected them. Relishing the smooth, nearly hairless skin under his fingertips, he pushed his hand under the chain, lifting it higher and higher until it was a taut shape, pulling twin points up and away from the rest of Sherlock’s body. He gradually increased the tension, making Sherlock whine and push up to try and relieve the pain. John placed his other hand on top of Sherlock’s gracefully curved collarbone, ordering without words. Sherlock’s white teeth appeared between lips curved into a grimace, and he settled back down into the bed, letting out soft, panting “uhs” as he did. The sweat that had only been beads before was now rolling down his temples to catch in curly dark hair.

 

John smiled, letting his right hand lower, chain clinking softly against itself, as his left hand traced Sherlock’s collarbone comfortingly. Sherlock’s moans turned into sighs of relief. “Good, you’re so good for me,” John crooned, then jerked the chain up once more before letting it fall, getting a thrill, mental and physical, from the choked gasp Sherlock let out. He smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s ribs, moving to straddle the thinner man. He bent down for a kiss, pinning Sherlock by the shoulders, moving one hand underneath Sherlock’s head. It was a simple meeting of the lips, smooth but wet, that changed into a deep exploration of Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue. He pushed his tongue over and across the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, relishing the way soft tissue turned into bone. Sherlock reciprocated, brushing the underside of John’s tongue with his own. His breath, quickly caught between kisses, was ragged and deep.

 

John tangled his hand into the nearly-soft hair on Sherlock’s scalp, enjoying the crisp feel, the way it let him in but still retained its nature. Rubbing his cock into the hollow between Sherlock’s ribs, he almost couldn’t stop himself from coming. Sherlock was so beautiful spread out under him, giving all control away, eyes foggy with desire. John stopped with effort, straining against his own impulses; he wasn’t finished with Sherlock yet.

 

“Time to move,” He said, making it an order.

 

Sherlock blinked a few times, dark eyelids slowly closing over unseeing eyes, then they widened, showing off thin rings of blue as he realized what was about to happen. “Yes, John,” Sherlock murmured. John wondered if Sherlock knew he was saying that. It sounded distracted; perhaps part of an internal monologue. John intended to make it stop, if so.

 

John grasped Sherlock’s shoulders, muscles firm under his hands despite Sherlock’s utter relaxation, skin slightly damp with sweat. He pushed himself back until his hips were over Sherlock’s stomach, then he raised himself up, enjoying the slight burn of thighs unused to kneeling for so long. He rolled Sherlock over again, using Sherlock’s upper arms as handholds to control the motion.

 

Sherlock moaned as the first half of his chest touched the bed, his body weight pushing down on the first clamp. John rolled him completely over, feeling the vibrations as Sherlock continued to moan. He ran soothing hands down Sherlock’s back as he adjusted to these new, increased sensations. John had barely been able to deal with this when he’d tested the clamps out himself, but he knew that Sherlock would appreciate being taken to a new level of sensation, his descent into subspace letting him take it in as more than pain.

 

“What am I going to do with you, hmm?” John murmured, more as a tease than anything. Several possibilities presented themselves to him, and he planned on going through as many as possible, but it was so tempting to just hike up Sherlock’s hips and take him, to feel him clench around John as each thrust jostled the weight of the clamps.

 

****

 

God, it hurt. Bright points of pain became burning fires of hell as Sherlock’s own body weight crushed the clamps to his chest. He whimpered, and whimpered some more as his cock brushed the bed, transmuting pure pain into something more complicated. His brain was confused, all the signals mixed up. It hurt, yes, but it felt good, too.

 

He didn’t want to move; moving would shift the clamps and make it hurt more again. It was almost bearable when he was still. The pain had dulled a bit even in the last few moments.

 

He felt John’s hands gently moving over his bound arms. Checking him, Sherlock knew, for circulation problems. Sherlock flexed his hand, surprised that the movement didn’t cause more pain. His hands tingled as blood flow returned, creating an entirely different kind of pain. John released the cuffs, letting him move freely again, guiding his arms in an arc around his body, flexing the joints, shifting his weight on his chest.

 

“Oh...” Sherlock moaned.

 

“Okay?” John asked, tone a bit worried.

 

“It hurts.” Sherlock complained.

 

“What does?” John’s tone was sharp.

 

“My chest.”

 

“Oh.” John sounded slightly relieved. “That’s alright, then. Here, let me help with that.” And pushed Sherlock’s chest into the bed.

 

“Ah, ah, ow!” Sherlock complained again.

 

“Shh. That is not the way to earn anything besides another spanking.” John punctuated his point with a quick, sharp slap to Sherlock’s still-sensitive rear.

 

Sherlock grunted, but otherwise stayed silent.

 

“I’d ask for an apology, but it might not be...you know what? I want one anyway. Sherlock Holmes, apologise for your behaviour.” The steel in John’s tone was undeniable. Sherlock resisted anyway.

 

“I didn’t do anything.” This was ridiculous; Sherlock felt a bubble of resentment rise, eclipsing everything else.

 

“You displeased me, and made me worry for your health unnecessarily. Apologise, or I will get the strap.”

 

And there it was: guilt. As much as he wanted to deny it, Sherlock knew how much John cared. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his head into the bed, but managed to clearly say, “I’m sorry, John.”

 

“Better. I still want to spank that arse again, but we do have a schedule.” John moved towards the foot of the bed, the vibrations carrying up to Sherlock, teasing and torturing him. He felt lighter for the apology, as useless as it was. As John moved away, distracted with his new task, Sherlock tried to push up slightly with his arms to take the pressure off his chest, but his arms couldn’t hold him long. Hovering was much more taxing than simply getting up, and the landing was nearly as bad as rolling over had been. He stifled his moan into the bed.

 

John was now on his feet and off the bed, looking for something in the wardrobe. A triumphant “Aha!” indicated that he’d discovered his looked-for object and was now headed back to use it on Sherlock.

 

Sherlock felt the soft slither of ropes around his ankles and had to suppress a shiver.

 

“Going to fuck your feet,” John murmured.

 

Well, this was going to be interesting, at least. John moved on to wrap Sherlock’s big toes together. Sherlock felt his own cock move a little as he imagined what it looked like, what it might feel like to fuck something like that. John had brought the lubricant as well, apparently, from the sound of a cap being unscrewed quickly followed by wet sounds of flesh on flesh. John was stroking himself.

 

Sherlock heard the slight noise that heralded John moving towards him. Hands took his hips and pulled him up, his knees coming under automatically, his nipples paradoxically feeling both relief and more torment as the pressure lifted and the position changed.

 

John pressed Sherlock’s head down, reminding him of his place; not that he had forgotten, or moved. Sherlock feared John would push his chest down again next, but John just moved back towards the end of the bed again. There was a cold touch against the soles of his feet, and Sherlock jerked a bit, trying to escape. John caught his ankles and Sherlock cringed, expecting punishment, but John stroked him softly and apologized.

 

“Sorry, my dear. Should have warned you. It is cold.”

 

John’s hands returned to Sherlock’s arches, the lubricant warmer this time. Sherlock remained still, not wanting to tempt fate. Then, a blunt touch, very warm, slid against his left sole before pushing into the space between his feet. John moaned, obviously relishing the sensation, and Sherlock took in everything his senses were telling him. This was something new. John had bound him before, but never with the express purpose of fucking that area. Crinkly hair scratched against Sherlock’s soles as John bottomed out, contrasting with slick, smooth skin. Sherlock found the contact pleasant, firm enough not to tickle, but odd. His toes and ankles pressed against their bond, pushed apart by the shaft now between them. John’s moans were decadent, but Sherlock felt no real pleasure from the motion itself.

 

After the first few slow thrusts, John picked up the pace, slamming against Sherlock’s feet, jolting him forward, making the chain swing and Sherlock’s chest explode with sensation. Sherlock moaned, and John echoed him. They continued like this. John becoming more and more urgent as he neared the end. The friction grew greater as the lube started to wear off, but that made it better for Sherlock, or, at least, gave him more sensation. John didn’t seem to mind, thrusting faster and more jerkily until at last he stopped, fully flush with Sherlock’s feet, jerking just a little as warm wet spatters of come landed on Sherlock’s legs. John pulled out, aiming the last few spurts at Sherlock’s feet. It was almost ticklish, then wet and slimy, as the liquid started to slide down his soles towards the bed.

 

John grabbed Sherlock’s ankles and pushed them towards his arse. Sherlock reacted to the sudden change in angle by digging in with his elbows, trying to prevent the clamps from pressing into the bed again. The chain brushed the bed, dragging on it slightly, but Sherlock managed to avoid anything worse. He stayed still as John collapsed beside him, unsure of what John wanted him to do next.

 

****

 

John didn’t move for a few moments, panting and rolling on his side to bask in the afterglow, but quickly realized that Sherlock was having trouble keeping position, still on his forearms and knees.

 

“You can, y’know, move,” John said. Sherlock reacted near-immediately, lowering his still-bound feet to the bed and rolling to his side, mirroring John. A slight clink of the chain and Sherlock’s small grimace were the only indications that he was at anything less than his best. John wondered what was going on inside his head.

 

****

 

Sherlock was still a bit hazy, processing the world as sensation rather than thought. His dominant thought, if they could be called that, were directed towards his sexual organs. Despite of and because of the pain John had caused, his cock had remained aroused. John had come, which was good, it meant Sherlock might get to come next. However, John was a bit distracted at the moment, still affected by his orgasm. Sherlock watched John carefully, waiting for the right moment.

 

“What do you want me to do now, John?” Sherlock queried after giving him what he deemed enough time to sufficiently recover from most of the chemical effects of orgasm.

 

John laughed a bit, smile loose and relaxed with pleasure, “Silly, it’s your turn. You get a reward for guessing right, remember?”

 

Sherlock felt his face heat slightly. He had forgotten. “I’m not sure yet,” he stuttered. “I do want these off, though, if you don’t mind?” He let his hand open to lead the eye to his still quite aching nipples and the jewellery on them.

 

John’s eyes wandered down to where Sherlock was gesturing. “Either this is your reward, or we do it my way, in my time.” His gaze, coming back up to meet Sherlock’s assessing eyes, was assured, ready to challenge any sort of superiority on Sherlock’s part.

 

Sherlock considered this, then relaxed his shoulders, neck lolling to one side, and answered, “You get that decision. My reward needs to be something good.”

 

“’Something good?’ Lost your words there for a bit?” John teased gently.

 

Sherlock looked at John, deciding his response, and settled on, “Yes. Any suggestions?”

 

“How about amazing? Brilliant. Cool? Delightful.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, and regretted it as his chest moved. “A bit more pleasant, at least. I want another massage after this,” another gesture, “is finished.”

 

John smiled, showing his teeth this time, true pleasure and predatory appreciation mixed inextricably. “Excellent choice. Oh! Another one, excellent, fantastic, great, h...damn, no ‘h’ ones at the moment.”

 

Sherlock laughed, not regretting the movement this time, and settled, waiting for John to make the next move.

 

John responded to Sherlock’s stillness, focusing more intently on Sherlock, scanning his body, checking his face for what, Sherlock didn’t know. He moved further down on the bed, reaching for Sherlock’s legs, now slightly sweaty where they touched, forced together by the rope, dotted and streaked with come. His hands lightly skimmed over the bumpy texture of skin and rope. He ended his inspection by running his fingers over Sherlock’s heels, causing Sherlock to gasp slightly and jerk, ticklish. John stroked back the other direction, firmer this time, and Sherlock sighed, relaxing into the touch. John released the knotted ropes, rubbing Sherlock’s calves with intent, bringing back any lost circulation, and massaging come and lube into his skin.

 

“A taste of what’s to come.” John said, smirking a bit at Sherlock, who focused his gaze back on John, having lost it for a second.

 

“Now, to take care of what I started.” And John _moved_ , surging up and catching Sherlock by the collarbone, thumping him back on the bed. Sherlock grunted in surprise and pain as the clamps jerked in reaction, chain jingling. John followed up the motion, bringing his hand to Sherlock’s neck, moulding his hand to the bumpy, rigid surface. He pressed down, and Sherlock’s breathing sped up, fighting the restriction.

 

“You’re going to come as they come off, did you know?” John asked casually, switching hands on Sherlock’s throat, barely leaving off pressure, it left him more conveniently positioned for tugging, teasing, and torturing Sherlock’s already painful nipples. He flicked the furthest one, and Sherlock’s response, a high sound, made him smile.

 

Sherlock watched John warily, eyes wide, waiting for his next move.

 

****

 

John felt a thrill at Sherlock’s response, his purely focused attention. There was a tightening in John’s belly that presaged arousal. He flicked the opposite nipple, taking in the jump and subsequent moan intently, memorising them for the future. Then he did it again, and again, until Sherlock was whining and shifting under his hand, not quite begging for respite.

 

“God, you’re an addiction. Did you know that, Sherlock?” John flicked his fingers one more time, savouring the reaction. Then he released Sherlock’s neck, bringing his hands to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders, to keep him centred and aware of his body and John’s position. “Almost there.” John made his voice encouraging.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond beyond a sustained humming between his gulping, finally-unrestrained breaths. John paid close attention to Sherlock’s face and colour. Sherlock was flushed - expected in this situation. His lips were bitten red in attempts to not make a sound. His breathing was clear - full breaths, not much wheezing. His neck wasn’t bruised, and his nipples were scarlet where the clamps held on outside the areolas. Taking those off was going to hurt. John would wince, except he was looking forward to it with more excitement every minute. He moved an arm under Sherlock, pulling him up with his stronger right arm while moving behind him, enjoying the friction of Sherlock’s back against his own skin.

 

They sat together for a long moment, John supporting Sherlock, his arms clasped around Sherlock’s torso. John waited for Sherlock’s breathing to even out, and for his face to lose its flush.

 

“Now, here’s the game,” John began, and new excitement curled his toes as he squeezed Sherlock a bit tighter. “I make you come, and you take off the clamps before you do. If you don’t, I will ruin your orgasm, and wait until any afterglow is done to remove them, which, as you might imagine, will not be very fun.”

 

Sherlock shivered, and John felt the movement keenly, skin to skin **.** Sherlock took a few breaths before saying, “Yes, John. Thank you.”

 

“Oh, very good.” John smiled widely into Sherlock’s neck, kissing it gently, running a hand soothingly up and down Sherlock’s thigh. Then he took Sherlock’s forearms and bent them towards his body. “You can wait as long as you like, as long as you take them off before you come.”

 

Sherlock groaned.

 

****


	4. In Which There Is At Least One Final Climax

John stroked Sherlock’s shaft gently, feeling the tug of un-lubricated skin, even though a drop of pre-come glistened at the very tip. He rubbed it in, savouring Sherlock’s reaction: the sudden tension of his body against John’s chest, the quickened breathing. He trailed a hand up the tight stomach to trace and tug the hanging chain - now a lovely shallow curve against heaving pectorals.

 

Sherlock groaned again, and turned his head to push it against John’s, too tall to hide his face in John’s neck. John laughed and brought his other hand to stroke sweat-dampened curls away from Sherlock’s face. He groped around, not willing to turn his head and break contact, and eventually his hand bumped against the bottle of lube he had retrieved earlier. Quickly, he opened it and squirted a thin, melting line on Sherlock’s bare thigh.

 

Sherlock jumped at the sudden cold, but relaxed as John ran his fingers over the skin, coating them, bringing them back to Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groaned this time. He always enjoyed smooth, gentle friction. John gave him just that, keeping his movements soft, caring, his twists slow. He left off after a few minutes, when Sherlock began whining in earnest, playing with the soft balls instead. Sherlock made a choked sound of denial and want as his cock was abandoned, but doesn’t try to push into John’s hand, or do anything but react to John’s touch. His hands hesitated over the clamps and the reddened nipples held in them.

 

John smiled, and turned his head to kiss Sherlock tenderly. “That’s my boy, so good for me. Even after I’ve pushed you so hard...” He ran a teasing thumb down Sherlock’s slick cock, making him buck involuntarily. “Do you want it? Tell me.” John pushed his thumb against the base.

 

“Yes, yes, please!” Sherlock cried. “I want it. Need it, John. Please?” He writhed in place, his cock bobbing, looking very needy, a dark purple red.

 

“Ask me some more,” John said, feeling the need to push it just one more time. He’d never made Sherlock really beg before.

 

Sherlock made a breathy, frustrated sound. “I can’t—I can’t take it anymore, John. Please let me come? I’ve been so good for you. I want it. Let me have it, please?”

 

John smiled, satisfied. Amused that, even in this state, Sherlock’s begging still sounded like demands. “Very well, come when I say.” And he set to work on Sherlock’s cock again, pulling quickly, lightly, using both hands to work it at Sherlock’s favourite pressure and speed. Sherlock moaned, his voice high-pitched. His body tensed with every pull.

 

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Clamps off. Come for me.” John’s voice dropped, and he spoke directly into Sherlock’s ear at the last.

 

Sherlock obeyed, fingers squeezing the clamps open, pulling them away moments before he let out a choked cry, nearly a scream, and came, and came, spurting onto his stomach and chest, as John lowered his hands and returned to stroking. Eventually, the dribbles of come stopped, and John circled the tip of Sherlock’s cock, rubbing in the spatters left behind. Sherlock’s breaths were nearly sobs as he came down. Boneless against John, he dropped his hands to the bed, the chain pooled in one palm. John held him, ignoring how hot and sticky they were against each other, grateful that the headboard was there to keep them upright.

 

****

 

Oh God, oh God, oh Godohgodohgod it hurt. His nipples had screamed with the removal of the clamps, surpassing any previous pain. He was never doing that again. Not for a while at least. Even if the pain had heightened, perhaps even lengthened his orgasm. Good lord, that had been intense.

 

His nipples still throbbed, their shape distorted by their lengthy imprisonment. Curious what the skin might feel like, he touched them, and had to bite back a moan. Even the brush of his fingers sparked the tortured nerves, hyper-active from the returning rush of blood and their previous abuse. Coming to that conclusion took longer than Sherlock was willing to admit. He let his arm fall, hoping John hadn’t noticed, or, at the very least, would not attempt to touch Sherlock there until the effect subsided.

 

****

 

John watched curiously as Sherlock stiffened against him after the barest brush of Sherlock’s fingertip against his newly-freed nipple, but refrained from repeating the gesture. Surprising that Sherlock couldn’t predict that reaction. John certainly hadn’t enjoyed touching his own flesh after removing the clamps. That might be fun another time, but they’d done enough for today.

 

It took several long minutes before Sherlock’s breaths evened out. “My turn.” John said, keeping his voice firm, despite how very hard and wanting he was. “You have been very good for me today. Just one last thing, yeah?” He stroked Sherlock’s still quick-moving side, nuzzling him for a moment, before pushing them both forward.

 

Sherlock groaned softly, not able to do much more, but adjusted his legs so that they could both rise up and fall forward. Sherlock caught himself on his elbows, his cushiony arse moulded to John’s very stiff cock. John kissed his way down Sherlock’s back, tasting the salt of sweat, the tang of his own come. He took in Sherlock’s utter submission: his ease, his relaxation, even in this exposed position, and revelled in it. No matter how temporary it was, being able to be in charge for once, to take care of Sherlock without any resistance on his lover’s part, and to be allowed to be selfish, encouraged towards it, even, was the most amazing thing John had ever experienced.

 

He bit Sherlock’s arse as he came to it, unable to resist the pink target sticking out so invitingly. Sherlock jumped, and John soothed the hurt with a soft tongue. He licked his way over to the middle of those cheeks, making Sherlock nearly collapse into the bedding, moaning in over-stimulated pleasure. John pushed his tongue inside the crevice before pulling the tender cheeks apart and rimming him softly, making Sherlock tremble. “God, you love this, don’t you?” John asked, feeling very salacious. “You love me rimming you, and spanking you, and pushing you further that I’ve ever taken you before.”

 

Sherlock made a noise that might have been a “Yes” and pushed his arse very slightly back into John’s face in response. John pinched the nearest arse-cheek in warning, drawing back to sit upright as he poured more lube onto his dominant hand. Then he slipped a finger inside Sherlock’s hole. The first went in easily, but John played with it, twisting it about, brushing Sherlock’s sensitive prostate, making him whine before upping the ante. Two fingers were only slightly harder to push in. Sherlock’s orgasm had left him spineless, and very, very willing. Three went more slowly **.** Carefully John curled his fingers back to his hand, over and over again, shifting the angle every time, making as full of a circle as he could. Sherlock’s reaction when John brushed his bundle of nerves was satisfying, but John enjoyed moving on, and hearing the disappointment the change wrought nearly as much.

 

He added his tongue to this, rimming Sherlock again, making him squirm with over-stimulation as both the inside and outside of his hole was given pleasure.

 

Satisfied that Sherlock was ready now, John withdrew his tongue and hand and rose up, bringing one lube-slick hand to his own cock, lined it up, and pushed in, in, in. Sherlock groaned openly at this, cooperating fully, pushing back against him, letting him in. John felt welcome, free, almost lost in pleasure. He thrust in and out fully, very slowly at first, teasing them both before setting up a faster rhythm. His hands drifted and held at Sherlock’s hips, which, bony as they were, served as excellent handles for controlling his movements.

 

It didn’t take long, even though this was his second time today. Sherlock’s obedience had been maddening, giving John more than he’d ever thought he could have. Replaying every moment in his mind, broken words of praise spilling out of his mouth, he came, utterly free, weightless, content-purely and truly doing what he was supposed to at last.

 

They collapsed on the bed, John taking Sherlock down with him as he fell to his side. Still connected, but shrinking inside him, John simply let himself feel, panting and mindlessly stroking Sherlock’s side.

 

****

 

They stayed like that for several minutes, pants turning to sighs, dizzied hormones working through taxed systems, before John forced himself back to awareness. He walked to the bathroom to gather a few slightly dampened flannels, analgesic cream, and a glass of water. He entered the bedroom quietly. Sherlock hadn’t moved, still sprawled on his side, drowsing.

 

John set his burden on the bedside table carefully, sat on the bed, and then gently rolled Sherlock over, calling his name, keeping the mood going.

 

“You’ve been marvellous for me today, so good. Just need you to let me clean you off now, hmm? Such a good boy for me.”

 

He gently cleaned off all the traces of their play, wiping away sweat and semen. Sherlock shivered slightly at the first cool touch of the damp flannel, but quickly relaxed into the soft strokes, offering each body part in turn, showing off his awareness of John even as he kept his eyes closed. He moaned softly as his sore nipples, still marked from the clamps, were tenderly rubbed with analgesic cream, swiftly followed by his mostly-recovered bum. John sat with him for a few minutes after that, just stroking the long back, which still showed faint traces of fading love bites from their last round.

 

“Sherlock, you need a drink?” Sherlock shook his head lazily, one eye cracking open to look at John, indicating how very not-interested he was in this line of thought. “I’ll leave it here if you get thirsty.”

 

After he was done, John returned his supplies to the bathroom, rinsing off soiled flannels in the bath and putting away the ointment.

 

His stomach rumbled, and all of a sudden he was aware of his hunger. John headed toward the kitchen.He knocked together some sandwiches, simple cheese and meat, thankfully still sealed in their original plastic bags, not yet stolen for mould or decay experiments. Putting them on a plate, he poured a cup of juice for himself and hurried back to the bedroom.

 

“I brought sandwiches for later.” He announced, his voice trailing off as he noticed Sherlock’s slumber. Chuckling to himself slightly, he sat in his chair beside the wardrobe and ate, watching over his love.

 

****

 

The rest of the day was simple and quiet. They moved around each other in tandem, Sherlock actually complying with John’s request to help clean up the dishes after the sandwiches were eaten. Sherlock was unusually tactile, pushing into John’s side, and propping his chin on John’s shoulder as he typed up a new blog entry. Eventually, soft strains of Handel issued from Sherlock’s violin as he serenaded the street through the open window.

 

It took several hours for the mood to wear off, but as it did, John looked up, seeing Sherlock still plucking thoughtfully. The light from the now-closed window was waning, the sun setting at last.

 

“Today was good.” John remarked, unable and unwilling to avoid stating the obvious.

 

Sherlock’s smirk was easy for John to read.

 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, too, obviousness aside. I worried a bit, after, that I’d gone too far.”

 

“No, it was good, John. I _do_ have a safeword.” Sherlock’s smile gentled slightly. “You were magnificent.”

 

John shifted, warming to the subject, “You went under really fast on me. I’ve never seen you go boneless that quickly.”

 

Sherlock’s return gaze was penetrating, “You’ve never been that demanding. For all the play we’ve done before, you kept letting me lead. You kept _asking_. This time, you felt like punishing me, pushing me, and you did. Believe me,” Sherlock rose and walked across the room to hover behind John, whispering in his ear, “I appreciated it.”

 

John’s cock jumped at the feeling of hot breath on his neck, the images of the future that those words inspired. He laughed and groaned. “I’ll never be rid of you at this rate, will I?”

 

“Certainly not.” Sherlock sounded slightly offended, and started to pull back.

 

John grasped a trailing arm, and stood up, turning. He pulled Sherlock close, nudging them into position for a kiss. “I never would, you know.”

 

Sherlock’s lips stretched against John’s. “Good. Now, I do believe I won a massage the last round.”

 

John laughed, hands trailing down to squeeze Sherlock’s cushiony arse. Still a bit sore, from the squeak Sherlock made. “Certainly. After you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved, appreciated, cherished, and replied to.


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